Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

“She’s dead,” someone screamed. “I saw her-”

“Has anyone seen-”

“My sister, it hit her foot, she’s still-”

“Keep firing!” Winter screeched, banshee-wild. “Load! Fire!”

Hesitantly, the rattle of musketry rose again. Winter could see their faces now, tense and determined, or crying, tears cutting through the black grit as they brought the muskets to their shoulders. One girl jerked, a fountain of blood blooming high on her chest and blood soaking her shirt. She raised her musket to her shoulder, fired, then collapsed backward into the grass.

A new sound thrilled through the firing. A skirl of drums, not the low, steady beat of the march but the rapid heartbeat-fast pace of the charge. Winter pictured six thousand bayonets coming out of their sheaths, wicked-sharp points gleaming as they snapped home.

“Back! Up the hill!”

Standing to receive the charge would be suicide. A formed body of troops would go through the thin line of volunteers like a rock through fog. But the regulars, packed tight, would have a hard time running down their more nimble opponents.

A few muzzle flashes came from the enemy line, men firing as they ran. Winter backpedaled as her company turned and ran, searching the smoke for laggards. Balls twittered and zipped overhead, but she didn’t turn to run herself until the leading rank of Orlanko’s men emerged from the cloud of smoke, trailing streamers of gray fog from their uniforms. Then she sprinted up the slope and after the girls of her company, catching sight of Jane well ahead.

Here and there along the line there was a clash of arms, as some volunteer who’d been too slow turned to fight or tried to defend a wounded comrade. The regulars charged like lancers, spitting these unfortunates on their fixed bayonets, then carried on up the hill with a cheer. Winter saw one thin figure-whether it was a boy or a girl, she couldn’t be certain-jump up from the grass like a pheasant taking wing in front of a hunter, only to be brought crashing down by a blast of musketry from the advancing line.

The majority of the volunteers escaped their pursuers, however, and the regulars quickly realized the chase was futile. They slowed down, then halted, sergeants shouting furiously to dress their ranks. The men cheered at the sight of their enemies in panicked flight.

“Halt!” Winter shouted. “Halt and fire!”

This, she knew, was the moment of truth. Conventional military wisdom said that, once a body of men had broken formation and started to run, it was impossible to get them to return to the fight until they’d fled out of sight of the enemy and their ingrained discipline and fear of their officers could overcome the terror of battle. If that was true, the volunteers would keep running, down past the guns and the Colonials, and likely panic the formation of pikemen along the way.

On the other hand, as Marcus had explained the plan, this was a different sort of army, with a different sort of soldier. They didn’t have a complicated formation to maintain, and more important, they had a cause , something beyond their immediate survival or possible punishment by their officers to motivate them. Janus was gambling that this would make them tougher than the time-serving rankers who opposed them.

Whether it was true of the volunteers in general Winter couldn’t say, but her heart lifted when it became clear that Jane’s girls, at least, were going to confound the tactics manuals. They stopped running at her command, and as she jogged up toward where they were gathered, they went back into their loading and firing, their shots cutting short the cheers among the surprised regulars. More muskets cracked along the line-while some had no doubt continued to run, it seemed as though the volunteers had justified Janus’ faith. For a few minutes, the enemy was dumbfounded, as balls zipped over their heads and men fell in place. Then, ignoring the shouting officers who were still trying to reorganize the ranks, they began to fire back. The smoke grew thick once again, and the nightmare of dimly seen figures firing and falling in spasmodic flashes began anew.

Winter could well imagine the enemy commander’s consternation. The roar of musketry was continuous, but the return fire from the volunteers did not seem to be slackening. If they couldn’t be broken with firepower, they had to be shifted with cold steel, but when his troops stumbled forward they found their opponents flitting back out of their reach like ghosts, only to stop when the attack had spent itself and return to their constant, galling fire. Twice more the regulars worked themselves into a frenzy of cheers and charged, and both times they caught only a handful of stragglers.

Among the volunteers, confidence was steadily increasing. Balls struck home, and men fell here and there along the line, but their loose formation made for a much harder target than the disciplined shoulder-to-shoulder ranks of the enemy. Janus’ artillery had joined in as well, switching its fire to the infantry and arcing balls to bounce through the enemy line. And when the breeze tore gaps in the wall of drifting smoke, they could see the damage they were inflicting. A carpet of blue-coated bodies marked the slow progress of the regulars across the valley floor and up the slope, mounding in drifts in some places where they’d halted to exchange fire.

Whoever was in charge over there-Orlanko, Torahn, some army colonel-had one card left to play. How long will he hold it back. .?

“Abby!”

Jane’s shout jerked Winter’s attention back to the here and now, amid the skeins of drifting, powder-scented smoke. She saw a knot of her girls gathering, and hurried in their direction, trying to listen through the earsplitting din of musketry.

“Spread out!” Winter croaked. Her voice was almost completely gone, and she resorted to grabbing the clustered girls by the arm and pushing them to either side. “Don’t make a target! Spread out!”

“Winter!” Jane was bending over Abby’s prone body. Her voice was as raw as Winter’s. “I think she’s hit, but I can’t find where.”

“We should-”

“ Help her,” Jane said. Her eyes were very wide, and her dark crimson hair had faded to dull gray under a layer of grime. The hand that reached out for Winter was gray as well, cut by streaks of sweat.

Damn. Winter looked down at Abby, then up at the enemy. Damn, damn, damn. She knelt beside the girl, curtly waving for Jane to back off.

Abby lay on her side. Winter took her shoulder and pushed her onto her back, limp arm flopping into the grass beside her. No time for half measures. If she’s dead. . But taking a pulse was impossible amid the constant crash and jar of muskets and cannon.

There was a crust of blood and a sticky trail, right at Abby’s hairline. Winter probed it tentatively with one finger, anticipating the soft, sick shifting that meant a shattered skull. Instead she found only a narrow ridge of torn flesh. Abby’s mouth opened, and she gave a low moan.

“She’s alive.” Jane put her arms around Winter and squeezed tight, as though she were somehow responsible. “We have to get her out of here.”

“We can’t leave the others,” Winter said. “Find a couple of the taller ones-”

She stopped. Another sound was barely audible, under the blasts and concussions of the battle. More shouts, not the cheers of excited troops but screams and warning. And, beyond that, the rumble of hooves.

“Run,” Winter said. She tried to raise her voice, but it came out as a hoarse squeak. “Run! Jane, tell them to run!”

“I’ll take Abby-”

“No!” Winter jumped to her feet and grabbed Jane by the arm. “Come on . There’s no time!”